


this time the world will change

by alovelyburn



Category: Berserk
Genre: Implied Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelyburn/pseuds/alovelyburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wall is cold against Griffith’s back tonight, and he feels it, that chill, seeping into his bones.  <i>Creaky bones,</i> he thinks.  He may as well be getting old before his time.  It seems appropriate for one in his position.  Situational factors had been shown to be influential in the aging process, hadn’t they?  Or rather, they had been observed to do so.  He’s sure (almost sure?) that he’d read that in a book, once, a long time ago.  But, of course, no one had ever really been in his situation before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this time the world will change

The wall is cold against Griffith’s back tonight, and he feels it, that chill, seeping into his bones. _Creaky bones,_ he thinks. He may as well be getting old before his time. It seems appropriate for one in his position. Situational factors had been shown to be influential in the aging process, hadn’t they? Or rather, they had been observed to do so. He’s sure (almost sure?) that he’d read that in a book, once, a long time ago. But, of course, no one had ever really been in his situation before.

...speaking of which.

 _Clink clink_ and _rattle_. The door creaks on its hinges, and he doesn’t look up. Instead, his head falls back against the stone behind him, and Griffith closes his eyes.

 _Another day_ , he thinks now, _Another day..._

“...another day!”

He’s not sure which one of them said it, actually - Judeau, perhaps? He wasn’t paying close enough attention, having been distracted by the clink of wine glasses banging together, the rattle of the slightly uneven wooden table as it shook in response to their movement. They ought to have chosen better seats... but there’s something strangely endearing about the imperfection of the moment. Almost grounding. The past few weeks have been... exhausting at best, and Griffith can barely keep his head up sometimes. Still, it’s a good sort of exhaustion - even if it does leave him phasing out from time to time, head resting back against the tavern wall.

Yes, another day... and another celebration. Griffith sips his wine as Corkus says he’ll drink to _that_. Drinking to another day of drinking? He wonders what Corkus will do, now that things are changing, or have changed. Now that existence is no longer a daily struggle.

Griffith is at the head of the table, of course - he always is - with Casca to his left, and Guts to his right. It feels... right, doesn’t it? It feels proper. Even if Guts is distant, these days.

(Distant, yes, but _here_. And isn’t that the important thing?)

So, he listens as the captains give their reports. So far, everything has gone according to plan - the few remaining segments of the Chuder army, and the survivors of destroyed battalions trapped outside their borders when Doldrey fell - have been killed or captured for the most part. Others have slunk back home with their tails between their legs. Griffith doesn’t envy them the attentions of Chuder’s king, but in any event, the cleanup is nearly over. Even the clean up of the clean up has nearly passed.

All of which means that it’s time to settle into their new lives. It’s strange, watching his army scatter, too - settling into shops, proposing to their sweethearts. Many stay, of course, opting to be part of Midland’s regular army - an order of knights instead of a band of mercenaries. Those are the truest of all the Hawks, he thinks. The ones who still call themselves just that, in private. The ones who don’t care to be called Phoenix. As for the rest, well... with their new titles, they have access to levels of society many of them hadn’t even realized existed, until now. They can court noble ladies (though whether the ladies wish to be courted by former commoners is, of course, is another matter). And Griffith himself...

Well, he has options, too.

At the moment, in the wake of that final report, one of the most enticing options currently available to him is to get up from the table and go outside. As encouraging as the news is, after all, he’s still... tired. So, fresh air, he figures - at this time of year, the temperature alone will probably wake him up a little. With a nod and the appropriate congratulations, Griffith excuses himself from the table, promises to return soon, and only moments later, he is standing outside, ankle deep in the snow, watching the sky.

It’s a full moon. A time of magic, the legends say. A time of change? He’s read that somewhere, too.

The door opens behind him with a creak, and Griffith glances over his shoulder, though he knows already who it will be. Guts. Is it odd, he wonders, how easy it is to recognize that man by his footsteps? Heavy and sure. Slightly hesitant, sometimes.... especially when they’re alone. Especially lately. Even now, the silence seems to stretch for years.

In the end, it’s Griffith that breaks it.

“I suppose you haven’t forgiven me yet,” Griffith says, and exhales a puff of white mist into the cold air.

“Yeah, you’re right. Can’t stand you anymore.” Guts steps up beside him, hand awkwardly tapping his own shoulder. The still-healing spot where Griffith’s sword had cleaved him, that night, and ended their duel.

Griffith glances down at the snow sparkling under the moonlight. It was a night like this then, too. He remembers it clearly, even though it’s been weeks. He’ll probably never forget. The snow, and Guts’ footsteps. His simple “sorry” when Griffith asked if he seriously intended to leave. Casca had tried to stop the duel, but Judeau was right, of course - they were mercenaries, at heart and even the strong could be lead by the stronger still. What was won by sword could be won back only through the sword - in that way, it was nothing more than another war.

Another war he’d won. But at what cost?

...Griffith had issued the challenge in order to maintain the status quo, in a way. To remind Guts who held his chains. To... maintain his grasp on the one thing that had ever tried to leave him behind. He had done it, really, because he couldn’t tolerate the thought of being left behind... or of Guts existing in the world without him.

He didn’t know why, really. Even now, he wonders. In the end, he had tried to put things back as they had been, but... no. Everything became different even so. The truth of it is like an ice dagger in his heart, yes, but in truth he should have known. It had been foolish, he supposes, to think otherwise; to hope that he could force a man to stay with him and yet retain the relationship they’d had before. Their...

He can’t... find the word for it. He can’t give it a name. And in any case, it’s gone - Guts can no longer tolerate him, and it burns him to the bone, but it’s still better than nothing. So, he nods, and he’s about to say that he understands - about to try, for the five hundredth time, to accept it for now... but he doesn’t have a chance, because Guts is laughing.

Laughing, and grinning.

“I’m not pissed at you.” Guts shakes his head and suddenly his massive hand smacks Griffith hard on the back. Griffith stumbles forward a step, confused, though come to think of it he should have expected that, too. And Guts says, “What are you doing worrying about things like that, anyway?”

“Ah...” It should be obvious why he worries. The silence between them has grown so thick, the space so awkward. And if it isn’t resentment, then what could it be? So he blinks, and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling less like a count, and a general, and a savior... and more like a slightly awkward 21 year old man faced with an inexplicable something. “You wanted to leave.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Guts’ hand rests on Griffith’s shoulder, heavy and firm. “Can’t figure out why I wanted to go to begin with. Just feeling restless, I guess.” He shakes his head. “I don’t hate you, Griffith. Actually... good thing you did it.”

...what?

“But we’ve barely spoken in weeks.” And all at once, Griffith can’t raise his head. Can’t look at him. “You don’t... hate me?”

“Ehh.” Guts sighs, and takes a step forward. Beneath his heavy boots, the ice covered snow breaks with a _crunch_. “Why do you always ask stupid questions like that? I’m not gonna get pissed off because you called me on our deal. I’m the one who came up with it in the first place. No... I don’t hate you.” And then again, more softly, “...I don’t hate you. Maybe that’s why I took off to begin with.” And Guts’ fingers nudge at his chin. And Guts says, “Truth is, I--”

Griffith is listening, waiting. Has been waiting so long that now he can’t... breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t--

* * *

\-- _breathe_.

When his eyes jolt open at least, there is water puddling under his head, and water in his nose, and water in his lungs.

His jailer says, “Rise and shine!” But actually, it comes out more _rishe an’ shhine_. Or something similar. Griffith’s grown used the slurring, just as he’s grown used to the _clink clink_ and _rattle._ The sound of chains in the darkness. The sound of that rolling cart he uses to carry his jailer’s tools.

It was water, he supposes. Another form of torment - to deny him breath. At least... he thinks that’s what happened. He can barely remember anymore, and he doesn’t know how long it lasted, or what precisely was done. But he knows he’s... cold.

And he knows it’s dark. But then again, it’s always dark. And in the dim light of one candle, he can see the torturer’s tools of the moment (of the day? He doesn’t know - can’t keep track of time) - a knife, a razor, and... yes, the fire is burning today. Griffith (that is his name, right? If he can remember...) lowers his head as that little man raises the hooks and tells him not to fall asleep.

Even so, the world goes dark, and...

* * *

...Guts is shaking him awake. The jolt sends Griffith tumbling out of bed, taking his silken sheets and down-filled blankets with him. The result is a sea of shimmering sky blue and thread-of-gold embroidery covering his eyes and a lot of fumbling before Guts pulls the mess back from Griffith’s face and says, “Look at Midland’s savior.”

All Griffith can manage to say is, “What an embarrassing start to a morning.” So, he pulls himself upright, first sitting and then standing. The unwarmed air is cold against his bare skin, because he’s never much bothered with sleepwear.

And Guts... well, Guts rolls his eyes, leans against the wall and says, “Keep draggin’ your feet and you’re gonna be late for your big day. That’s even more embarrassing than your big fall.”

…Griffith’s big day.

Oh right, he’s meant to be getting married. As it happens, everyone of social note will be in attendance - and a fair chunk of those who aren’t of social note. And every Hawk. And even Foss, cowed into submission as he is, has promised to attend with all his family in tow. Yes, his wedding. How could he forget?

“Strange.” Griffith pulls the blankets and sheets back onto the bed and shakes the sleep from his mind. “I didn’t remember. In fact, even now it doesn’t seem real.” Sidelong, he glances at Guts, still standing only feet away. “It’s normal, right? To feel as though I’m in a dream?”

“Pretty sure that’s normal. Yeah.” Guts folds his arms across his chest. “You’re marrying the queen.”

“Yes... that is dreamlike, isn’t it?” The fulfillment, in fact, of the dream he’d spent his life pursuing.

In truth, while his ambitions had taken him from the slums into the palace of Midland and surrounded him with both finery and luxury, he’d wondered if he ever would achieve it.

The problem wasn’t Charlotte. His intentions with her had gone quite smoothly. She loved him - quietly, but desperately in her proper way. That was by design. But her father. The king was too protective, too possessive. Too reluctant to release his grip on Charlotte, even to someone as well-loved as Midland’s White Hawk. Perhaps it was Griffith’s blood, still cheap beneath his titles and wealth, or perhaps it was something else. The king...

_...the king. why does the thought of him turn Griffith’s blood to ice?_

It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead - taken by a plague that nearly took his daughter as well. But she was young and strong, and he was weakened by years of occupying that throne and living beneath its burden. He was interred in the family crypt, forever immortalized as the king whose reign saw the end of the 100 year war. Charlotte, meanwhile, still lives, and Charlotte still loves Griffith. And Griffith... well, he doesn’t mind her. She’s sweet, sometimes, and irritating, sometimes. Spoiled and childish and necessary to him. He’s always known that he would not be unhappy with her, at least most of the time.

Now is the time to test that theory.

So, he washes himself, and dresses himself - at least well enough to make his way to the tailors waiting to finish the job. And, in the end, he looks...

Well, presentable anyway. His clothes are casual, for the moment (he’ll only need to change later), but casual to him is quite different than casual to someone like Guts. Standing before the mirror, Griffith ties his hair back with a golden ribbon, and Guts stands behind him, looking the same as he always does, these days. Halfway between the mercenary he was and the knight he’s become. Plain clothes, but at least they’re well-fitting.

Gut takes up the entire mirror, really, standing behind Griffith like that. And Griffith watches that face in the reflection. And he thinks... they’ve both grown, in different ways.

“Do you remember when we first met, Guts? After your first mission with the Hawks, I told you things were just beginning. That they would now become interesting.”

“Yeah, I remember. You were just as naked then as a few minutes ago, too.” His voice is harsh, the way it’s always harsh. But his smile is soft. “You never change.”

True enough. Griffith laughs, head slightly turned down. And nods. “No, I never change.” At least... not in the ways that matter. “I never told you, but... that was the day I knew that I was right about you. That you were... worth fighting for. It was the bucket, you know - that last one. No one ever treated me that way. No one ever dared. ...no one but you.” At first, he’d almost been angry. But it only took a moment to change his mind. To realize he had just found someone truly different. Truly... precious.

Nothing has changed. Guts meets his eye without fear, and stands tall without hesitation. He doesn’t shrink back from Griffith’s gaze, even though he’s now in presence of his future king. It’s not surprising at all - he’d never even stood down for the previous king, and that man wasn’t Guts’ closest friend.

Guts makes a little noise, like _tsk_ ing, or maybe a _tch_. “Looks like that was some kind of moment. Before that, I was still thinking of taking off in the middle of the night one day. Then I thought... what the hell. This guy... maybe he can do it. Maybe I’ll see what happens.”

Griffith raises his eyes again, catching Guts’ gaze in the glass. “You live up to my hopes entirely. I hope... I also live up to yours.”

“You said it’d get interesting, and it did.” Guts shrugs, that casual way he always does. “You said you’re grab a kingdom, and here we are. Looks like you lived up to everything you said.”

“Yes... my dream is nearly complete.” Griffith raises his chin, too, now. And yes, they had walked a long and winding road - a twisted journey through dark places and light alike. There was death, so much death. And loss, and near loss. There were things he’ll never repeat to anyone, never. And the road that took him to the palace was... built of these things, these terrible things. Such things that sometimes, when Griffith looks in the mirror, he sees...

It doesn’t matter what he sees. That time is over.

“In a few hours, I guess it really will be complete,” Griffith says with a tiny nod. “The dream, and the fight to achieve it. But... that doesn’t mean you can leave.”

“Gri--” Guts’ face... changes. He looks strange, like someone caught with a secret. And Griffith knows he was right to wonder.

“Don’t leave. Don’t ever... leave..” Griffith presses his hand flat against the glass, overlapping the reflection of Guts’ own. “Even if the war is over... I still need you. I still--” ...why can’t he ever find the right word? Does he even know what the right word is? And he should say it, all of it. Take everything inside him and turn it into words - weave it into confessions and poetry. He’s always been good at that, hasn’t he? So he should do it; say it before he loses his chance.

Gut says, “You’re turning into a king. Casca’s taking over your position. The war’s over. This is court, Griffith, what the hell do I know about court?” He shakes his head. “And these fucking clothes itch.”

Griffith’s heart is pounding. But, in the end, all he can find is, “You’re my only friend.”

And it isn’t the entire story, no. It doesn’t express the swelling in his chest when he sees that man, or the way his breath quickens. Guts still doesn’t know how much Griffith... wants him. Wants to consume him. Wants to crawl into his space and feel his warmth and breathe his scent and inhale his exhales and...

Those words, they leave so much unsaid. But maybe... maybe it’s enough to--

* * *

\--he’s screaming again, and he didn’t even notice. Actually, that’s not surprising. He barely recognizes his own voice, recently. It’s cracked and dry, hoarse and broken. In the end, it simply vanishes.

But he feels the cold of stone against his back again, and the torturer tells him he’s beautiful and pushes him forward a little. The air rushes against his face as the padlock holding his mask in place comes away.

The torturer says, “Time to trim your hair.”

Griffith shivers, though he doesn’t feel cold. And he closes his eyes when those rough hands grab hold of his hair and--

* * *

\-- _tug_. Guts fingers drag through Griffith’s hair, pulling a little, disappearing inside those white-silver strands. And Griffith is still shivering from the last kiss to his throat, but now he feels... warm. A heat inside him, spreading through his chest and through his bones to his fingertips. _Tug_ \- Guts’ hands wrapped around a lock, tugging him closer, and it’s a little _sharp_ and a little dull, too, and mostly it’s _impatient._

Which he can understand. After all, despite his own superior knowledge of the workings of vests, it’s still taking too long for him to unhook his own buttons.

“All these _layers_.” Guts wrinkles his nose and scowls, and pushes Griffith’s hands back. “I don’t get how you go around trussed up like a ham. How many shirts do you need?”

“One shirt. One vest. A cravat. A jacket. And--”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Guts’ fingers slide up Griffith’s chest “You’re dressed like a gentleman. I don’t care. All I know is...” ...and as soon as they stop, gripping the top hem of Griffith’s vest, Guts’ next action becomes entirely predictable. “It’s in the way.” Guts’ voice is a low grumble, followed by the tearing of cloth, the popping of buttons. Guts has never been patient with this sort of thing. And the vest was expensive - one of the remnants of Griffith’s time as potentially-the-king. But at the moment... Griffith doesn’t care. He doesn’t care when Guts tugs the cravat loose a little roughly, or when the buttons of his shirt snap.

He doesn’t care that Guts’ hands are calloused, or that they scratch slightly when he brushes them against Griffith’s throat, against Griffith’s bare chest, his shoulders. All he cares about is this: that they’re present. That they’re _his_. At long last, his. Just like those kisses - harsh and rough and hungry.

Almost as hungry as his own.

...and the funny thing is, Griffith has never much cared for sex. Perhaps it’s a matter of associations more than anything else. Because, in general, when he thinks of of it, he doesn’t think of love, or even desire - at least, not his own. For him, it and all things surrounding it have existed only as commodities... and he has traded them for money, for favors, for access. When he thinks of bedgames, he thinks of degradation, of swallowed pride. Not of pleasure. Never of pleasure.

But this...

This is different. This is a long sigh of relief; an oasis at the end of a seemingly endless desert, and no matter how many times they touch, it always seems the same. And he wonders if it will ever change - if he’ll ever touch this man and not feel as though he’s coming up for air. Maybe one day.

But not today.

...in the end, the sweat cools on their bodies in the dark. And Griffith is still hungry, will always be hungry. But for now, at least, the sharpness of it has faded to a dull ache. Still, he drapes an arm across Guts’ chest, and thinks, _Mine. Always, mine._

“I don’t get it.” Guts’ voice, quiet, almost gentle. At least, for him. “You could’ve fulfilled that dream of yours. Instead, you up and run off with me. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Griffith raises his head, silently and just... stares. Because it does make sense. It makes all the sense in the world.

Guts says, “Why’d you do it?”

“Because...” Griffith’s lips brush gently against the curve for Guts’ shoulder. Angles, really - all hard muscle, even now. In the end, theres only one answer he can give. “I wanted you more.”

And Guts shakes his head. As usual, he doesn’t understand.. He’s always been so blind.

“....love.” Griffith says the word softly, almost under his breath. And his fingers trace patterns on Guts’ arm - circles, and waves. Swirls. “That’s the word I’ve been looking for this whole time.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Guts inhales, deep. “Was it worth it?”

Griffith’s ear is pressed against Guts’ heart. And underneath him, there is a ceaseless thumping. Interplaying with the gentle rhythm of Guts’ breathing, it’s almost like... music. The most beautiful music in the world.

And Griffith says, “Yes.” There are tears in his eyes, stinging. Falling in little droplets onto his cheek, and onto Guts’ chest. “...yes.”

_Yes. Yes. Yes. Y--_

* * *

“-es. That’s pretty, right?” The torturer holds up something thick and red and wet. Griffith’s glassy eyes raise and for a moment, he doesn’t... know what it is. Doesn’t recognize it. And then he realizes that his mouth is full of blood, and his eyes are full of tears.

“‘ey!” The creature that has been Griffith’s only companion for (who knows? A day? A year? A century?) waddles forward, and there’s a bloodstained rag in his hands. “You’re crying? Don’ cry.” Gently, he wipes the tears from Griffith’s face. The gentility... that just makes it worse.

(Never told him. Never found the word, or the strength to say it. And now, he never will.)

Griffith lets his head drop down, lets the man lock that mask back into place. _Lets_? No... it’s a relief, really, to have his face covered again.

And the torturer says, “We’ll do something different, this time. So don’ go away.”

But, of course, he’s already gone. He’s spent so much time, already, living inside the same dreamscape... it’s almost difficult to tell the dream from reality, now. He closes his eyes, and drifts.

Maybe this time the world will change.

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not this was my Christmas present to some friends. Does that make me mean? (Probably.) Originally posted 12-25-12.


End file.
